


I'll Fly Away

by vintagemiserie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, it really do be like that sometimes huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagemiserie/pseuds/vintagemiserie
Summary: When you're one of the most successful young jazz artists of your time, what happens when you're outed by major news publications? Patrick found out once he was pulled out of a haze of hallucinogens and dropped into rehab, and he's been living it down for the few years since. Luckily, he's got a new boyfriend, a sweet guitarist who seems to make life a little better every day they're together. On the trek of self-betterment, what can go wrong?Otherwise known as "jazz au" on vintagemiserie.tumblr.com. First handful of chapters are very short, and all chapters are in a vignette style.





	1. Take Five

Joe pressed a kiss to Patrick’s cheek, eyes not straying from the television. It was early, and they’d barely woken up, watching Speed Racer and trying their best to shake off their hangovers. “Can you tell me about it, though? I promise I’ll stop asking, I’m just curious, ‘cause you keep refusing, and I wanna know before your interview with Big Beat.”

“I met a guy and he betrayed me, and I don’t even know if I’m gonna take that interview in the first place. There, is that good?”

“How’d you meet him?”

Patrick scoffed, then leaned over and kissed Joe. “Will you promise not to laugh at how stupid I was?”

“Of course,” Joe replied, putting an arm around him to play with the singer’s hair.

“So, I… I started the band when I was sixteen, and when I turned seventeen, or maybe I was still sixteen by a week or two, I recruited this guy, this tenor. He was thirty, maybe, at the time, and… we got kinda close. You know how I’m, like, practically as close to Andy and Pete as I am you?” He waited until Joe gave an affirmative hum. “Well, we were even closer. He learned that… he learned that I was grappling with… with my sexuality, and I guess the best way to describe it is that we had an… extended affair. I don’t like to think that it was dating, not really, he was over a decade older than me.”

“Sounds like a piece of shit,” Joe said, pressing a few quick kisses down Patrick’s jaw and neck.

“He’s worse than that, don’t worry. He convinced me to, uh… take… fuck, LSD, I think? I only learned this later, but he’d take a pill that looked like the real thing, act like it made him feel great, then gave me the actual drug. Andy started to keep tabs on him, that’s why I know that, and he told me that I really shouldn’t be around him anymore, and I thought I knew better.” Patrick pushed Joe aside and curled up, pressing his chin to his knees. “One day he drugged my drink—I was only eighteen—and I figured out something was wrong, and then next day it was a show, and I yelled and screamed at him before the show, and fired him, and the show went terribly because I was still recovering from whatever was in the drink, and… god, I’m pretty sure it was my nineteenth birthday when he sold his story off?” He laughed, although Joe could tell that the nervous tic was nearly a sob. “I had to go to rehab. Rehab! I wasn’t even twenty, Joe. I didn’t write a single fucking song that year, and the label decided to punish me, or something, by not letting me release the album that was already finished, set to release a few weeks after everything happened. I can’t even listen to the songs off it, I sound stoned out of my mind. And I was, too.”

“I thought you released an album that year, though. Was that, like, Pete writing it, 'cause I know he’s a decent lyricist.”

“He took old songs I wrote and changed the lyrics and others, one of my 'bones, who quit maybe a month or two after the album released, rewrote some of the melodies and such. All I did was sing.” Patrick took a shaky breath and looked to Joe. “Andy, bless him, he was all the PR I got. Couldn’t stop me from breaking down and crying in a few interviews. Record Mirror wrote an article that fucked me up for a week it was so scathing.”

“I think I remember that article.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I had a subscription to them my freshman year of college.”

Patrick hummed to acknowledge him. “There was a press event that ended early 'cause I started crying after a few questions and I got too incoherent for, god, I think it was Andy who was with me, to answer. I’m okay now, though, that was three years ago, and I’m over it. I’m completely okay.” He took a deep breath and rubbed an eye. “When’s college starting back up, babe? 'Cause we better finish up writing everything if you wanna tour our new songs.”

“It starts a week before my birthday, I think. So that’s, what, a month? We don’t have time.”

“God, your so smart, Joe, and you’re dating a ex-druggie high school dropout.”

“You’re plenty smart.” Joe leaned back in, kissing Patrick softly. “Look, when I get my physics homework, we can sit down and do all of it together. I bet you’d get it done faster than me.”

Patrick laughed and shook his head. “You know how bad at math I am, Joe. I’d never be able to keep up with you.”

“I don’t think that matters, I think the sentiment does. Do you know what the asshole’s up to now?”

“He headed two failed bands and overdosed on something last year. Dead as a doornail.” He squirmed out of Joe’s grasp and stood. “I’m gonna get a drink—no, water. Still got a headache, I shouldn’t drink while I’m still hungover. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ve grown up since then, and I know you worry easily. I’m gonna get a cup of water and then we’ll write.”

Joe trailed behind him, into the kitchen. Patrick was really rather handsome, his haircut still Beatles-like, but just short enough to suggest that he didn’t want to be called a hippie. It suited him, Joe thought, fitting well with how he seemed to be on the outskirts of pop culture, not confident enough to go strongly one way or the other. “I love you, Patrick,” He said, leaning up against the counter beside him.

“Love you, too, Joe.” Patrick drank part of the glass he filled, then kissed him soft and slowly. When they split apart, the singer spent a few seconds looking over Joe, a wistful smile on his face. “You make me really happy, y'know. Like, really, truly happy. I haven’t felt the good in years.”

Joe laughed and kissed him, placing a hand on his cheek. “I’m glad you feel glad.”

Patrick replied with nearly hysterical laughter as he pushed himself back against Joe, embracing him as if to ignore the fact that they both knew he was moments away from breaking down in his arms.


	2. Autumn Leaves

Patrick stared at Joe, his eyes big and his hair falling in his face. His mouth was open, though Joe couldn’t tell if he was going to say anything or not. It was early, the sky still dark according to the window outside. They were up rather late, oddly enough, walking around a park and taking pictures of each other, discussing business stuff. It was rare for them to do that, but Patrick said that his concept was directly related to the writing of the rest of the album, and that he wanted Joe’s opinion. It had to do with sexuality, and public perception, and fear and addiction and everything else he usually avoided. He said that he’d been writing lyrics with Pete, and that he figured that there would be no harm in covering more intense subjects.

They were home, though—rather, in Patrick’s bedroom, safe and sound, not needing to think ill thoughts. Joe wasn’t, at least, though his heart dropped when he figured that the singer in front of him was probably doing as poorly as usual. “Hey there,” Joe said to him, feeling barely awake as he admired the pale freckles that dotted Patrick’s nose.

“Hey,” He mumbled in response, pressing his head against Joe’s. “Why’re you up so early?”

Joe responded with the same question.

“I haven’t gotten to sleep at all, actually,” Patrick said, a miserable tone sharp in his usually soft voice.

“Oh.”

“I keep questioning whether or not I should do this. I mean, I dunno… management called me a gay man for the straight audience, and… if I do this, I’m basically betraying that, but… I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing. I dunno. I don’t want you to get hurt in the process, and I’m worried that would happen.”

“Whatever you think is fine, Patrick.”

Patrick cupped Joe’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along his jaw. “The problem, Joe, is that I don’t know if it’s fine or not. I want it to be about us, but… I dunno.”

“Well, I’m gonna go back to sleep. I think you’ll be able to decide better if you sleep, too.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. I love you, Joe.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re trying to sleep.”

Patrick giggled. “I honestly don’t think I’ll get to sleep, even if I try.”

“If you can at least pretend to sleep for long enough for me to fall asleep, that’d be nice.” He yawned. “I’m not turning up to the studio without a good night’s worth of sleep.”

“Yeah, I get that. Wanna go out and see a movie after studio?”

Joe leaned forward and and kissed him. “I’m begging you to shut up, baby.”

“Yeah, alright. G'night.”

Joe closed his eyes and, while Patrick’s hand rather distractingly traveled down his neck to settle at the top of his back, he was able to get to sleep without much difficulty.


	3. Hello, Goodbye

Joe’s nap was interrupted by the phone ringing, and of course he had to pick it up, even if he was a bit tired still. “Hello?” He said, trying to sound professional and awake.

“Hey, Joe,” Patrick said, voice sounding weak.

“Oh, hey, what’s up,” Joe said. He sat up, putting his pillow between his head and the wall.

“I just—Andy just dropped me off at home from rehab stuff—I had a couple questions, for you, actually. Er, requests, or something. Sorry, you’re not busy, are you?”

“Of course not, Patrick. I was taking a nap, actually.”

“Okay, okay, good. Umm… Okay. First, uh, tomorrow’s Friday, you’re coming over once classes are done, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll come over. I’d need to leave pretty early on Sunday, though, my parents are visiting and they wanna have lunch with me.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, I just wanted to, y'know, see you, and stuff. ‘Cause I like seeing you. Um, the other thing… uh… right. So, my therapist recommended that I make, like, a daily to-do list, sort of thing, right, and she told me I should put down even the most basic things, and I’ve been trying to write one out, but to be honest I don’t know what I should even do.”

Joe sat there for a few moments, trying to process what Patrick just said. “Uh, yeah… fuck, Patrick, I dunno what to do. Get breakfast, brush teeth, take a shower, practice, write, get dressed, go to rehab, call me, go on a date with me, you know, the stuff you normally do during the day.”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem, I don’t know what I should do, what order.”

“Yeah.”

“…Yeah.”

Both of them laughed, and Joe felt his heart swell. “Have I ever told you I think you’re adorable?” He asked, unable to stop smiling.

“I still don’t believe you,” Patrick teased.

“That’s a shame, really. Okay, here’s what we’ll do here: you’re gonna wait a second, because I’m hungry and I know you can wait a few seconds, and then I’ll come back once I have a bagel, or something, and I’m gonna try to walk through my day and help you out.”

Joe could practically hear the smile in Patrick’s voice as he said, “Sounds good, Joe. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Patrick. I’m not gonna hang up, ‘cause it’ll be easier for both of us to not have to pick up the phone after, like, a minute.”

Patrick laughed. “Okay,” He said, and Joe set down the phone and headed off to his kitchen, struggling not to smile at how cute his boyfriend sounded.


	4. Blue Bossa

Patrick calmly asked the secretary what the address was, and parroted it into the phone. When Pete asked if that was a police station, Patrick replied with, “Thanks for picking me up I’ll stand outside so you can see me I’ll see you soon bye,” and then hung up. He mumbled a thanks to the secretary for getting to use the phone, pushing it across the desk, and then stepped outside.

Itwas cold, the rain nearly snow, but he just adjusted his sweater and hoped Pete would be there soon. Even knowing the address, Patrick had no clue where he was, but since Pete seemed to be aware of where he was, he was probably close by. Patrick couldn’t tell whether he waited five minutes or an hour, but Pete’s Cadillac eventually rolled up, and Patrick got in, feeling horribly cold.

“You got arrested.” Pete started.

“Yeah, but I—”

“Patrick, it’s five AM.”

“It was late and I wanted food, so I got a taxi and I went to, fuck, I went to the gay bar on… fifth. I went there because Andy tells me a lot that I should, um, I should try to meet other gay men, not to date, but just so I have more people to fall back on, and, um, someone recognized me and they were sober so I asked them if they could drive me back to my house, but we got pulled over and arrested and I don’t really know why and I’ve been sitting around for, like, hours, and then they just said I could go, and since Andy’s in LA I couldn’t exactly ask him to drive me home.”

Pete didn’t reply, instead driving off. At some point he turned on the radio, rubbing his eyes. Patrick felt his head end up against the window. Pete yawned.

“I’m sorry I probably woke you up, I just wanted to go home,” Patrick added. He tried to make his eyes focus on the street signs, to see if he recognized any of them, but static began to fill his view every time he opened his eyes. “I think I’m hallucinating,” He mumbled.

“Is this something I need to worry about?” Pete asked, tone suggesting to Patrick that he didn’t care, even if he probably did.

“I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

Eventually Patrick saw his house, and Pete pulled into the driveway. “Thanks,” He said, getting out of the car once Pete parked.

“I’m gonna make sure you get in fine,” He said, getting out as well. He out a hand on Patrick’s back, keeping him steady as they walked to the front door.

Once it was opened, Patrick pulled Pete into a hug. He kissed the bassist’s cheek, then stumbled back. “Sorry for waking you up so late, or, or early, I guess. I think Joe's—today’s Friday? Er, yesterday was? Joe’s gonna come over at around noon, I think, so you don’t have to worry about me.” He began heading off to his bedroom.

“Patrick?” Pete asked, just as Patrick grabbed at his bedroom door.

“Yeah?”

“I have some lyrics I’m gonna give you at some point. I might call you or come over.”

“Okay.”

“Try to get some sleep.”

“Okay.” Patrick felt his voice turn feeble.

“I care about you, Patrick.”

“I know.”

Pete left, leaving Patrick all alone. He stepped into his bedroom, looking around at all the pictures he pinned to the wall. He couldn’t get himself to smile, even if looking at them made him happy. He rubbed a cheek and felt it was damp, and it made him wonder if he ended up crying, and if he did, for how long. He took one picture off the wall, a candid of Joe studying and being adorable, and set it on his nightstand so he could admire it when his vision was less wonky.

Then, he changed into pajamas and went to sleep.


	5. Jelly Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these chapters are so short, BUT there are newer chapters already up on my tumblr, vintagemiserie.tumblr.com. i am thirsty for validation lmao. enjoy this chapter boyz

Patrick looked to Andy, then back at his menu. “Can I get a milkshake?” He asked, adjusting his glasses.

“What—of course you can, I’m not gonna stop you. I’m not your mom, or anything.”

Patrick nodded, feeling stupid. “It’s… yeah, I know.” He pushed himself closer to Joe, just enough for Joe to know that, were they alone, he’d be much closer. “It’s just been a while since I’ve eaten at a sit-down restaurant.”

“We went somewhere last month, though. Before you were in the hospital,” Joe mumbled, putting a hand between the booth and Patrick’s lower back. Patrick ran a hand through his hair and rested his head against his hand.

“And I got shitfaced,” He replied, wondering if Andy or Pete would even have been able to hear him. Joe chuckled, but something about the tone he used sounded off.

Pete was the next person to speak. “Well, I think I’m gonna get a rib-eye,” is what he said, and he set his menu down.

A waitress came over, and they all ordered, and after a minute or two a strawberry milkshake was set on the table. Patrick grabbed at it and spent no time waiting to drink it. Andy chuckled. “I’m proud of you, Patrick, even if you didn’t need to ask me permission to get what you want.”

“Thanks, mom.” Patrick tried his best to sound funny or sarcastic. It felt weird and wrong, the buzzing in his head telling him that he’d feel less weird if he were drunk. Another thought popped into his brain, a reminder from his therapist that talking about positive things would eventually get the negative thoughts out of his head. “I’m glad I get to live at home again. I missed it,” He said. It didn’t really help much.

“I know! I get to, like, see you again,” Joe said, pulling him into a hug before abruptly pushing himself away. Patrick knew how it felt, cutting short every interaction with Joe in case anyone caught on. “And, uh, I might stay the night, this weekend, too, Patrick,” He said in a much lower tone.

“Love you,” Patrick whispered, slumping and deciding not to talk as much. He was getting a bit of a headache, after all, and he figured that it would be best for himself to listen in rather than have a conversation that revolved all about him. They got their food, and Patrick held onto Joe’s hand as they stepped back to their cars, and almost life felt decent for once.


	6. Let It Be

“You think I’ll live past twenty-five?” Patrick asked, resting his head on Joe’s shoulder. It was two in the morning, after some local show, and Pete and Andy had finally let them be alone. Naturally, that meant that Patrick stopped acting like he felt fine, since he’d already complained to Joe about his endless strife for nearly an hour the day beforehand, though he’d been cut off because Joe had to hang up and run to classical mechanics II before class started.

Patrick had rebounded again after another full month of sobriety, see, and he told Joe that no one else knew, and Joe felt awful about it, because he couldn’t quite find empathy even though he knew he should feel more torn up. What he did feel felt misplaced, which made Joe feel even more awful—it just made him stressed, really, and like it was just another thing added to his already busy schedule. “You can’t die before we get married, Patrick,” Joe replied, “And if you think we’ll be able to do that in less than four years, then I guess I’ll allow it. Let it be, y'know.”

“You’re fucking weird.”

“And you’re fucking alive. Look, I think things’ll work themselves out, and… I can’t find the right words, but, but I think you might be overreacting a bit.”

“God, Joe, I wish you knew.”

“...Yeah.”

“I would ask you to turn on the TV, but I think maybe we should just sleep, instead. What day is it?”

“Well, it’s two, so I guess technically it’s Sunday “

“Oh, good, so you’re staying.” Patrick got up and walked to his bedroom, not even waiting for Joe. He sat there alone for a while, trying to calculate a plan.

It was unlikely that Patrick would want to talk or think about anything that could possibly relate to himself, so talking about the band or their future or rehab wouldn’t go well, the singer would just get sad or angry and that wouldn’t be pleasant for either of them. That meant that any flirting wouldn’t necessarily be that great either. Talking about the show they played might be nice, although Patrick probably wouldn’t be responsive towards it and only degrade himself. Joe could also talk about college, but then again, Patrick would probably just think about Joe’s half-assed apology as he hung up, and wouldn’t want to talk. He took a deep breath and got up, figuring that he was probably just overthinking this and that Patrick, as complicated as he was, would probably be asleep by the time Joe finished thinking through every single possible thing to say.

Joe walked to Patrick’s bedroom, though not before making sure all the lights were off and that all of his own outerwear was set beside the bag he set down in the entrance. He closed the door and tried not to watch Patrick undress, since he usually seemed pretty self-conscious about that sort of thing. Instead, he got himself down to just his boxers, setting his shirt and pants neatly in a spot next to the bed, which, at that point, Patrick had crawled onto.

“I really do love you, Patrick,” Joe said, wasting no time in thinking about how stupid he sounded saying that. He turned out the lights and laid down, feeling Patrick cuddle up against him.

“Love will be the answer,” Patrick mumbled in reply.

“Hm?”

“You got the song stuck in my head. Let It Be, yeah? I just… I dunno. I appreciate how much you deal with me… sorry, that’s stupid, I’m gonna sleep.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“I said I’m gonna sleep.”

Joe figured that he’d have no chance of figuring out what was going on in Patrick’s head, so he instead just kissed him and let him do what he wanted to do, even if Joe knew they’d both spend the next ten minutes figuring out every single thing they should have been able to do better that day. Eventually, they’d fall asleep, and Joe could only hope it would wash over them sooner rather than later.


	7. Grazing in the Grass

The atmosphere of the studio changed when Patrick and Andy stepped in. It was usual for the singer to sink into a foul mood by the end of any particular session, but to see him fuming before the whole studio band had even gotten there was a rare change. Joe decided that perhaps he shouldn’t head over to his boyfriend initially, instead deciding to fiddle even further with his tuning. After all, Patrick had other responsibilities, like talking to managers and producers, so perhaps it just had to do with that.

Once everyone had come and got settled in, Patrick stepped to the front of the room, still looking absolutely pissed. He clutched a rolled up magazine in his hand. “Which one of you spoke to National Enquirer,” He started, but some wind players’ noodling covered up what he said. Joe set his guitar on its stand and looked to Patrick. “Fuck you guys! I have shit to say, this is my band, horns down!”

The noodling stopped.

“Which one of you spoke to National Enquirer,” He repeated.

No one said anything, except for a few trumpets, who looked at each other nervously.

“The longer I wait for the answer, the more likely I am to fucking beat you to death. Who spoke about my personal, private fucking life, to a fucking tabloid? Which one of you decided that getting a few dollars for a few headlines would be worth this? My reputation—my boyfriend’s reputation!—back down to fucking nothing, for no consequences? Which one of you sorry bitches thought—”

One of the trumpet players raised their hands. “It was Adam, he told me he did it,” he said, a smirk on his face.

“No I didn’t, asshole!” A trombonist replied. A couple saxes laughed. “I didn’t, Patrick, swear to my life!”

Patrick looked tired, adjusting his sweater ever so slightly. “I would like whoever it was who released my private information to leave the building and never interact with me in any way ever again, understand? Spare yourself the shame of getting your nose broken by who you clearly think is a ‘sorry faggot who should be in a mental institution.’”

A scrawny tenor sax coughed, then stood up and left without saying a word. Patrick stepped over and kicked his chair, sending it sliding all the way over towards Joe, who suddenly felt quite nervous.

“Fucking figured,” Patrick said, as loud and abrasive as Joe had ever heard him be. The noodling usual in warm-ups resumed, and some of the tension seemed to have fled the room. Patrick took a few deep breaths, wiped off his glasses, and headed Joe’s way.

“What happened..?” Joe asked. He felt out of the loop, frankly, since everyone else seemed to know what went on.

“This morning, I was grocery shopping, and I came across this gem.” Patrick knelt down in front of Joe and displayed the magazine. On the cover was a few familiar faces, namely himself and Patrick. There was a headline in big, colorful text that said something about an affair. “I’ve spent the whole day calling people, up and down, trying to figure out who I was supposed to kick out. I never called you, I figured you’d have seen this piece of shit before now. You’re, uh… out. I'm… I wouldn’t blame you for leaving now, uh, since I can just push through… push through the couple songs without guitar, y'know, and you can go to your place, and I’ll have Andy drop me off there or nearby there because paparazzi is gonna be swarming my house trying to get more solid proof of us being together, and that’s the last thing I want. I… shit, Joe, I didn’t want this to happen.”

Joe grabbed Patrick’s arm, feeling how shaky he seemed. He pulled the singer closer, into a hug. “I don’t care too much, Patrick, it’ll end up fine,” He said. “I almost got expelled from high school for being gay, it didn’t bother me then, it won’t now.”

“You’ll care soon. Be—besides… I… let’s run through one song where you play and if it sucks, I’ll just have you leave so I can focus without feeling guilty.”

Joe nodded.

“You’re not gonna break up with me, right?”

“Why would I..? If we’re still going for our plan of getting married when it’s legalized, I don’t think breaking up with you would help with anything.”

Patrick laughed and kissed Joe’s cheek. “You're… I’m glad I’m with you, even if it means something like this happens.” He stood up and headed back to the front of the room. “Okay, warm-up is done, let’s run, ah, Grazing in the Grass, then we’ll get to doing what we need to get recorded,” He yelled, seemingly composed once more despite the increased shakiness of his hands. Joe grabbed his guitar and got ready to start playing.


	8. Stolen Moments

From his room, Joe heard the front door open, and didn’t really think anything of it. He just turned his radio up a bit louder so he could focus on his electrodynamics textbook, figuring that his roommate invited a few people over. The only problem was that his roommate opened his bedroom door. “Your, uh, boyfriend’s here,” His roommate mumbled, leaving Joe to head over to the door, himself.

Indeed, it was Patrick, dressed in a bomber jacket, a t-shirt Joe was sure was his own, and jeans. He looked exhausted, masking it over with a forced smile that turned real once he saw Joe.

“Hey,” said Patrick, straightening his posture. He was clearly holding something behind his back, but Joe couldn’t see what it was.

“Hey.” Joe ushered him in and closed the door. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in my apartment, hm?”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. It's… home-y.”

Joe laughed. “It’s what we can afford.”

“Well, I… I’ll have to ask Andy how much further down my salary can go with me living how I am. Therapy, y'know. It’s kinda expensive. Uhh… no, but, um, Pete was driving me home from it, and I remembered I had a bouquet that I was gonna give you but, since you couldn’t come over, I couldn’t give it to you. Pete offered me to drive over here and I didn’t have time to make a call that I’d be coming, but, uh.. yeah.” He pulled the flowers out from behind his back and pushed them into Joe’s hands, his face flushed. It was a pretty bouquet, full of purple and blue, and of a pretty decent size. “I should probably go soon, Pete’s waiting to drive me home, and I—”

“Patrick, this is… wow.”

“It’s wilting a bit because I can’t take care of anything.”

“No, I… I love this. Hold on, let me find something to put this in.” Joe gave Patrick a big grin just in case the singer still had doubt in himself, then rushed off to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and setting the bouquet in. It looked a bit off with the grandiosity of the flowers compared to the cup, but it was decent enough. He came back and set it on their coffee table, pleased with himself. “Patrick, this is… you’ve outdone yourself.”

“You think so?”

“Of course.” Joe stepped to Patrick and pulled him into a hug, feeling the singer’s weak attempt at reciprocations. “You know, I really do love you. I don’t think you’re perfect, but that’s fine. It’s what makes me like you so much.”

“You’re practically perfect, that’s why you’re saying that,” Patrick said. He dropped his hands to his sides and pulled away.

“I wish I was perfect.”

“Well, you’re in college, and you’re so smart, and you always know what to say—”

“I keep talking until I find something that calms you down, you just don’t notice me panicking. Hey.” Joe kissed his cheek. “I don’t think any of this matters. I love you, and I love the flowers, and if I wasn’t cramming for my electro final I’d tell you to stay. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I… I love you, Joe, and I wish you didn’t have to act like a therapist towards me. I love you.”

“How about I walk you out of the building?”

“I… yeah. Sure.”

Joe grabbed Patrick’s hand and opened the front door, leading him out.


	9. The Girl from Ipanema

Patrick glanced over the postcards, making sure he didn't miswrite anything. “When do you think Joe'll get the England cards?” He asked, looking up to Andy, who shrugged and seemed not to care all that much. “No, really, I need to—I really wanna know when he gets it, I miss him.”

“I think it should be two weeks from when you sent it, so… in a week?”

“But, so then, if I send these today, he'll get them after we get back?”

“Yeah.”

Patrick groaned and retreated to his bunk, pulling the curtain over so no one could see him. He wanted to cry, even if he knew it was a stupid reason to cry; he told Joe that he'd be sending the postcards as frequently as possible over the duration of the tour, since they'd be so far apart, but he now he had no purpose. He looked over the two he'd just written, from Barcelona and Madrid, and crumpled one up. The words of love he wrote meant nothing, now, since everything he wrote he could just say instead, but he flattened the paper out again when he realized what a waste of a nice card it would be.

Perhaps, thought Patrick, they would go nicely with the pictures he was taking, and giving them to Joe wouldn't be so bad after all. The realization of his own stupidity dawned upon him all too quickly after this, and while it also made him want to cry, it was much less than before. "Where's our next stop?” He hollered, rolling over to face away from anyone who could possibly look in.

“Lisbon, we're getting there in an hour,” Someone from the main section of the bus yelled back. Patrick felt slightly better.

“Wake me when we get there,” He said, letting himself fall asleep.

Once woken up, Patrick found the giftshop in their hotel rather than his own room, and took a few pictures of the street outside as the sun set, the sky colored gold and pink. What he brought to his room was his camera and a number of Portuguese postcards, and he found a pen to start writing.

“Joe, I made the mistake of thinking that mail was sent faster than it actually is, but I realized that you like me too much to care when you get these. Your body and your laugh is all I've been thinking about while we travel. I'm doing,” The first read, the last two words scribbled out when he realized he didn't have enough room. He grabbed the second one and decided to write a little smaller.

“I'm doing well, although you already know that, since I already gave these to you. The tour has been fun, and I've been buying alcohol from all the countries we've been to, so I can try them once I go through another month of being sober. The boys have already told me the Bordeaux is incredible, and I'm really excited to try real Limoncello with you. It's sad that all I'm thinking about is drinks while I'm trying to be sober, but I think I'm just jealous of the boys.” He grabbed his last card.

“This touring band is so fun, it's a shame you'll never get to meet them. The guitarist we have is a 'mod,’ and while I don't know what that means, I think it looks a lot nicer than hippies like you. Consider trying turtlenecks and plaid pants some time, I think you'd look really handsome. Spain and Portugal have been incredible so far, beautiful places, though not as beautiful as you, and I just can't wait to see the countries left. Mostly, I can't wait to come home. Love you, and I'll see you soon (before you read this).”

He scribbled down the date and his name and a few hearts, then set the cards down somewhere he'd remember to grab them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my stockpile, so the coming chapters will be longer and less frequent.
> 
> Also, I'm aware Ipanema is in Brazil and not Portugal, but I'll never get to use the name if I don't use it now lol


	10. Gimme Shelter

Patrick's hand found a grasp on Joe's sleeve, and he used that grasp to pull him all the way inside, reaching for Joe's collar and pressing their lips together once the door shut. Sure, it was Pete's house, but they were all hanging out there that day, and so they could be a little more intimate. Besides, the short walk from the driveway to the front door was dotted with thrown snowballs and giggling, so if only felt natural to kiss. “Hey, boys, how about saying hi before making out?” Pete said, stepping over from the kitchen in a t-shirt and shorts just as they separated. Patrick found himself unsure as to how exactly he should respond, but Joe laughed it off, so Patrick clung to him and followed suit, a bad feeling building in his chest.

“Well, hey, Pete,” Joe said, pulling Patrick into a sweet little kiss. “Is Ash around? Or is she in LA?”

“New York, actually. She's always busy this time of the year. Is Andy coming over, too?”

“I dunno, I didn't—”

“He's in Milwaukee working with that rock band he's in,” Patrick said, his mouth going dry when he realized that he really didn't need to elaborate at all past any kind of “no, he's not coming over.” He went through what was said to him in therapy: deep breaths and considering that others won't notice the flaws Patrick found in himself. He inhaled and thought about how horrible he was at existing.

Pete certainly didn't seem to notice the panicking. “Aw, that sucks,” He said, and Patrick allowed himself to exhale. “Okay, so, there's a band in town that I think both of you would enjoy for entirely different reasons—I was thinking dinner, then their show?”

“Sounds good,” Joe said, sounding as if he knew something Patrick didn’t. He put an arm around Patrick's shoulders as Pete excused himself to get properly dressed. He seemed to hesitate speaking for a moment, and so did Patrick, unsure of why he was feeling so anxious. “Are you doing alright?” Joe asked, his voice toned down with an energy different from Joe's usual laid-back attitude.

“I'm doing fine.”

“Your tone betrays your words, baby, I’m sorry. What's bringing you down, though, seriously? You sound terrible.”

“I 'unno, I just… something made me nervous and I guess I clung onto that—I’m fine, though, really. Most days I end up panicking over even less than this, multiple times a day, and I end up fine, so I can handle this on my own.”

“I just wanted to make sure. I know you like not talking about your feelings, but make sure you keep me informed if it gets worse, okay?”

Patrick nodded, shuffling closer so he could set his head against Joe's shoulder; Joe wrapped his arms around Patrick and kissed him.

“I hope you know how much I love you. I can't imagine how awful you feel, and I can barely talk to my roommate most days without half an hour of psyching myself out.”

Patrick realized at that moment that he had never considered Joe to be someone who would panic of things as inconsequential as talking to a friend, but his thoughts were processed into a murmured, “I love you too,” hoping he said it with enough conviction that Joe would hear past the barrier Patrick had between thinking and saying his thoughts.

Pete returned. “Swear, I can't leave you guys alone without you attaching to each other,” He laughed. He then pushed passed them and opened the door. “Okay, let's go!”

Joe seemed insistent on holding Patrick's hand as they walked to Pete's car, and Patrick tried his best to convince himself that it wasn't because Joe was worried about Patrick's anxieties, but because Joe didn't want him to scoop up a snowball and throw it at him. The attempt didn't work, and Patrick just felt bad for dragging down Joe's mood. 

Dinner was pizza, and it was fine. They didn't discuss much, just talked about the music they were working on. Someone recognized them as they left, but didn't ask for much else but an autograph from Patrick. Joe packed a snowball in his hands and Patrick pretended he didn't notice, though he practically forgot about it by the time Joe threw it at him. He at least remembered to laugh instead of get upset, but a bad headache stopped him from thinking too intensely over anything.

In fact, time seemed to rush past him, and suddenly he was handed a ticket stub and Joe squeezed his hand to ask him if he was feeling okay. Patrick said his headache was getting a little better, and Joe seemed to accept that, though it didn't stop him from getting Patrick water. He asked Pete what the time was and learned that the ride to the venue, getting tickets, and entering the concert hall took all of twenty minutes; Pete pat his back and told him he'd be fine, they had a whole opener to sit through, it'd be fine.

Joe came back, giving him the water bottle with a big smile. “Some chick told me to tell you hi, and that she wished you weren't queer because she thought you were hot,” He said, and Patrick tried his best not to freak out over that, even though he clearly thought Patrick would find it funny. Joe bit his lip and raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything, probably not wanting to bother Patrick further, and Patrick didn't mind.

“What—ah, I still don't know who we're seeing,” Patrick commented, looking around. The audience seemed to be a mix of hippies and rockers, and it made Patrick feel almost out of place.

“Rolling Stones,” was Joe's answer.

“Oh, they did that thing with Lennon and Yoko two years ago. Are they—this seems like a small venue for a band like them, hm?”

“I guess. I think they sold out Wrigley too, though, so they must've just wanted to do a small show.”

Patrick nodded and drank more of his water.

“They're all totally your type, too,” Joe added.

Patrick laughed, and Joe's expression brightened considerably, perhaps relieved he was at least acting better. He figured Joe's panicked feelings were dissipating, which would have been good if Patrick hadn't reminded himself he only found out about those feelings a few hours prior.

The lights dimmed and the opener played their set and Patrick figured it was alright, but far too reliant on drums and guitar in lieu of good lyrics. His headache went away, at least, but he wasn't impressed. Both Pete and Joe glanced his direction every few seconds, checking to see if he was doing alright, and it was nearly tiring to deal with. People trickled in until the standing room was too tight for Patrick to really handle, a problem made worse when Joe left to get Patrick another water. Pete settled a hand on Patrick's back, probably as much a way to keep Patrick grounded as it was to keep them from separating in the crowd.

The Rolling Stones came on stage before Joe returned, and Patrick could only hope he'd get back somehow. He was right, though, the dark, shaggy hair and lanky-yet-strong builds were exactly what Patrick found himself attracted to. The music was interesting, but nothing he specifically enjoyed, so he let himself lose his focus on the music. Joe somehow found his way back, giving him the water and putting an arm around him.

“Eyecandy, right?” Joe said into his ear, still struggling to be heard over the music and the crowd. Patrick laughed and nodded. “Pete decided on going 'cause we thought you'd give it more of a chance.”

“You know, I do like some rock!” Patrick replied, struggling to yell but still keep their conversation private, since Joe stopped leaning over to whisper to him. In fact, Joe just laughed and settled his head against Patrick's, singing along to the lyrics of whatever song was being played. Patrick decided maybe he would actually try to focus a little, drinking more of his water and ogling at the band.


	11. Good Vibrations

Joe settled his head on Patrick's shoulder, humming along to the Beach Boys song that played on the radio. The bed was covered with photos, and they were trying their best to organize the best ones. Hell, the walls were now bare, since Patrick wanted to get the very best pictures he'd ever taken. “Look at this one, Joe, your eyes are so blue in it,” He said, holding it up. The smile he had made Joe's heart melt; seeing his boyfriend so genuinely happy was far too rare for his liking.

“Why are we doing this, again?” Joe asked, scooting closer so he could at least consider kissing Patrick's neck.

“For the—uh, right, for me to submit to the, uh, the art gallery.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You suggested me to do it.”

“Yeah, I guess I did, huh? I like your pictures, I could never take half as good ones as you can.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, setting a picture in one of his piles. “That's not true, you've just never tried. I bet if you started with photography, you'd be a million times better than me, 'cause you're better than me at everything.”

“That's a lie.”

“No it's not. I can't even function by myself.” Patrick huffed and grabbed another photo, one of the touring band getting on a bus. “Normal people don't have their friend also be their g—their fucking… stupid as hell guardian, how did I—” He set down the photo and hung his head. “Do you think Andy thinks of me as capable of doing anything by myself? You think that's why my life's like this?”

“I dunno,” Joe said, feeling nearly uncomfortable. He tried his best to stay out of Patrick's relationship with Andy, if only because he didn't really know much of what it actually was. From what he understood, some legal stuff happened, and Patrick seemed to swing back and forth between hating it and desperately needing Andy to function. Joe picked up a photo, a pink and orange sunset with some leaves in the foreground. “Hey, this one's a really nice picture, did you climb into your apple tree for this?”

Patrick took the photo from Joe's hand with what felt like more force than the singer intended on, and he stared at it for a few moments before putting it into the "yes" pile. "I'm just so confused, all the time… fuck, sorry, we talked about… how you… didn't want me to… y'know."

"I don't really mind if you vent, Patrick, it was just getting to be too much."

"Yeah, I know. There's just nothing happy in my life to talk to you about. Even when I'm happy with you it stresses me out, 'cause I start thinking about how quickly everything could end, and how—addiction, and stuff, and I hate being such a downer, but I barely have any happy memories left, and even the happy ones make me feel like shit, 'cause they're all from when I was, like, eight, and Pete always tells me about how I used to be happy before I met him, and stuff, but I don't even know what I was like before everything happened, and—shit, Joe, I'm sorry, I can't control myself, my brain makes me say things and I'm just stuck without being able to do anything about it, and.." Patrick hid his face in his hands, and his shoulders began to shake. Joe knew he really needed to say something at that moment, but nothing he thought of was comforting.

In fact, his thoughts were really rather bitter, and shockingly so. Joe watched as Patrick sobbed, and he was unable to move. Nothing he'd usually say sounded alright to him, nothing sounded like something that would make Patrick shut up already and get back to what Joe wanted to do, because he just fucking wanted Patrick to stop talking and get on with it.

Joe slid off the bed and stood up. "Do you need… do you need space, for a second, Patrick? Because I don't think I can say anything that would make things better, and I think we both need to catch our breaths so we can just hang out with each other, and not, like, worry."

Patrick didn't reply, so Joe stepped out of the room, closed the door, and took a deep breath. He needed to think clearly, and get the negativity bug out of his head. His boyfriend had a habit of making things horrible, and Joe just needed to think and maybe brew himself a cup of coffee. He sighed and headed off to Patrick's kitchen and got to work with the coffee maker, since Patrick bought the coffee pre-ground.

Joe was deep in his thoughts over what to do to make things better, having sat in thought for a few minutes letting his coffee brew, when the room was lit up with a quite bright flash. He looked outside to see if the dark clouds brewed up a storm while they were in Patrick's room, but the clouds remained static, as they were when he arrived earlier that morning. "Sorry for freaking out so easily," Patrick said, and when Joe turned around he saw that Patrick was standing in the doorway, holding one of his cameras. "I think you did the right thing, leaving me alone. It makes me have to be responsible. I wish I was better at making it clear how in love with you I am."

Joe nodded, a horrible feeling of guilt running down his spine. "Yeah, I—Patrick, I got kinda mad with you, actually. I wasn't thinking straight and I left 'cause I didn't want to say anything stupid."

Patrick somehow managed to crack a smile, something Joe wasn't at all expecting. "What, you weren't thinking straight, fag?" He said, starting to giggle. Joe raised his eyebrows, unsure of what exactly to say. Somehow, he started laughing, too.

"You know, Patrick," Joe said, pouring his cup of coffee as he laughed, "I think you were right about yourself being stupid."

Patrick practically doubled over, and failed to say something with how hard he was laughing. Joe took a sip, then set the mug on the counter, stepped to Patrick, and pressed a kiss to his lips once they each got their laughter under control.

"I love you," Joe said. "We should, uh, let's get back to figuring out your best pictures. Isn't the deadline for submitting stuff for the art gallery pretty soon?"

"It's in, like, a week. I dunno, I kinda just want to kiss you right now." 

Joe smiled. "Then kiss me."

"Then maybe I will," Patrick glowered.

"You're not, though."

Patrick reached to the back of Joe's head and pulled him into a kiss, and Joe settled a hand on Patrick's hip, the other ending up holding the singer's arm. Then Patrick's head tilted a bit, and his lips parted almost imperceptibly, and Joe couldn't help but deepen the kiss.

His mind whirled, and as Patrick's hand tightened in his hair, his mind dropped all of the turmoil that they just went through. Nothing in his head could make him feel negative, not with Patrick's soft lips against his own.

Joe felt nearly breathless when Patrick pulled away, and watched how Patrick's pretty eyes wandered as they admired Joe's face, a smile growing on the singer's face. "Let's get back to sorting the photos," Patrick said, his eyes finally locking onto Joe's. He sounded unconvincing.

"I'd rather do anything but that."

Patrick's laugh was breathy, barely a chuckle but more than enough. He patted Joe's shoulder, then turned, not waiting for him as he headed for his bedroom.


	12. Chasin' the Trane

Patrick struggled slightly too much in closing the car door and buckling himself in. It was his last day in LA that year, and while he supposed it wasn't as horrible as usual, he felt almost suffocated in having to spend so much time with Andy while only getting time to call Joe once over the whole two-week period. "I'm gonna try to sleep on the plane," He said, trying to control how shaky his hands were. Andy nodded and started up the car.

"That's good. I packed ibuprofen if you get a headache."

"I've had a headache for as long as I can remember."

"I know."

Patrick turned up the radio, not caring about the station as much as the noise it provided, and settled his head against the window despite the bumpiness. Things stayed like that for a little while, the radio loud but everything else quiet, but Patrick found himself rather bored after fifteen or so minutes of sitting in traffic. Plus, his mind began reminding him of how horrible his life had been up until that point, and how he truly could never escape from himself. "When did you find out..?" He asked, pulling his head from the window after a particularly bad jolt.

"Be more specific, I've found out a lot about you," Andy said.

"About the drugs, and stuff."

"Oh." Andy looked over at him for a moment, giving him a look, as if it was obvious. "You weren't subtle. I'm pretty sure you told me a month after you started on whatever he was giving you. I knew about it before you started taking stuff to get through shows."

"Was I even seventeen at that point?"

"Yeah. I think everything went to hell a few weeks after your birthday..? Don't quote me on that."

Patrick laughed, a stupid chuckle that he wished he could just get rid of. "I'm kinda glad I got so messed up. It's nice to only have a few bad memories, y'know, even if my therapist hates me for not knowing shit I should know. I know it's against, like, recovery, but I'd be content without any of the nerve and brain stuff ever getting fixed. I can't imagine knowing more about myself, how awful that'd be… don't comment on that, I already know how much you hate me for thinking that."

"I don't hate you."

"Yeah, but I—y'know, it feels like it sometimes."

Andy changed the station and the conversation was over. Patrick returned his head to the window, trying to decide how he'd ask for ibuprofen once they got to the airport.

Even once they got there, the air seemed tense, with Andy entirely unreadable. Patrick felt horrible, knowing he didn't mean what he said earlier but not knowing how to mend things. He pulled his suitcase along and tried to get his vision to focus. Andy kept a hand on his arm, making sure he didn't stray too far, and they got to the terminal with ease. Patrick sat down almost immediately, feeling more and more dizzy as they walked. Andy started digging through his bag once they sat down near their gate.

This airport was nice, big windows letting the cool morning light through to dapple the carpet, but this did nothing but make Patrick's head hurt. There were restaurants and shops along the side of the walkway, and he tried his best to imagine which one Joe would go to if he saw Patrick in the sorry state he was in. "I'm hungry, could you..?" He mumbled, the room spinning when he looked up to Andy.

"Don't want to get up?" He sounded amused.

"I 'unno, I feel… not good."

"I'll get you something, Patrick. What do you want?"

"Don't care."

"Okay. I'll—I'll see what I can do. How about you have water, too?" He pulled a bottle out of his suitcase, and Patrick took it without hesitation. That was probably the cause of the dizziness, he thought, watching Andy walk off to one of the restaurants. He drank the water and relaxed his posture, trying his best to keep down the usual panic of plane rides that was now paired with a rather bad headache.

Andy came back with some sort of pastry in a bag. "Are you mad at me..?" Patrick asked as he took the bag. Inside was a chocolate croissant, warm to the touch.

"Why would I be?" Andy sat down beside him, pulling his suitcase between his legs to keep looking through them. "Have an ibuprofen once you're done eating that, okay?"

"I—yeah, okay. I just… I didn't mean what I said about hating you. I mean, I do feel like that sometimes, but it's not because I hate you, it's more… I dunno. I guess I'm just, like, helpless sometimes, and it makes me frustrated that I need you, or something."

Andy nodded, but didn't immediately respond. Patrick, frankly, hated the second where he didn't speak, wishing Andy would just be less thoughtful and say exactly what he thought. "You'd never tell me this a year ago," He said. "Keep eating your croissant, Patrick, you'll feel better once you do."

Patrick took a bite of it. "When's the plane taking off?" He asked, figuring Andy wouldn't want to hear more of his whining.

"Boarding's in half an hour, I think."

"Cool." He took another bite and reached into his suitcase to find the book he'd been struggling through. His hands had started shaking again, sometime after they got to the gate, and he could barely read a word due to the jitter despite his attempts at subduing himself. "I'm so glad you deal with me," He said, setting down the book after rereading a paragraph a few times without understanding it at all. "I can't imagine being here alone. Do you think Joe or Pete'll meet us at O'Hare?"

"They probably will, I doubt they wouldn't." Andy adjusted himself. "Joe called last night, by the way, but you were asleep. I would've told you earlier, but I forgot."

"Oh, what'd he say?"

"Just 'hi,' and that he missed you."

Patrick took a bite of his croissant. "I wish I could've said hi. Glad you didn't wake me up, my headache would probably be a million times worse if you did."

"You still want ibuprofen?"

"I… yeah."

Andy handed him the pill bottle.


	13. One Note Samba

As Patrick leaned further into the payphone's little shield to get away from the rain, visions of the night before the tour flooded his mind. It was sunnier in Chicago than it was LA, oddly enough; the time was perhaps two in the morning, and Patrick was laying against Joe in the guitarist's little apartment. Joe was looking through a shoebox of postcards and letters Patrick had sent him throughout the year, and they were cuddling and chatting about life and loving each other. "I miss you," Patrick mumbled into the handset, sliding another quarter into the slot. He thought of the way Joe played with his hair, and how he laid his head on Joe's chest, and how Joe kissed the top of his head as they slowly fell asleep together. That was two weeks ago, though, and running a hand through his hair didn’t make it feel like Joe was beside him. "I wish you weren't so busy with school, Joe. I want to kiss you right now."

Joe's laugh filled Patrick's ear. "Likewise," He said, in his utterly charming manner. Patrick could practically see the way his eyebrows raised, in that endearing way they always did whenever Joe smiled. It made Patrick smile, just knowing that Joe felt equally happy talking to him. "At least the tour'll be over in a couple days, and we’ll be back together."

"Heh, yeah. I miss you.” Patrick thought over the statement for a moment, and how he’d likely said it half a dozen times over that conversation. “God, I bet I sound so needy, right now. What time is it, back home?" He asked. A glance at his watch revealed it was nearly 11:30 in LA, much later than he thought it was.

"It's, like, 1:30, I think. I should probably get to sleep, soon."

"I probably should, too. My therapist said I might feel better if I get on a better sleep schedule."

Joe was silent for a few seconds, which gave Patrick ample time to think. He realized that he hadn't told anyone he went to go talk on the phone. It didn't matter too much, he figured. He could see the tour bus from where the payphone was, and as long as he remembered not to go walk further away, he'd be fine.

Joe still hadn't spoken, even though Patrick had spent so much time deep in his thoughts. "You still there, Joey?" It must have been quiet for nearly half a minute by that point.

"I was about to ask the same... Is it raining down there, baby?"

Patrick chuckled. "It is. I have about as much of my body under the shield as I can physically manage."

"I can hear it through the phone. I think it’s really cute that you’d call me in the rain.”

“Of course I would! Why would I not? You're so…” Upon not realizing exactly what he wanted to say, Patrick changed the subject. “Um… Do you have anything to do tomorrow?"

"Nah. It's a Saturday, baby. I'm gonna go out and see a movie with my roommate, but that's mostly because…" Joe kept speaking, but Patrick stopped listening. A figure caught his eye, someone walking towards him who was in too deep of shadow for Patrick to see. He felt himself tense up, even if he thought it was stupid to; no one was at the gas station besides the band, after all, and so he had nothing to worry about. Another few steps forward and it became obvious, much to Patrick's relief, that the man was Pete, who seemed to be walking off on some sort of smoke break. At this point, Joe wasn't speaking anymore, and Patrick wasn’t entirely sure how long he hadn’t been speaking for.

"Mm, cool," Patrick said. Joe began to laugh.

"You didn't listen to a thing I said, did you?"

Patrick pushed his glasses up and nodded to Pete, who stood in front of him. "We're bound to go in five, ten minutes,” Pete said, trying his best to pretend like he wasn’t

"Okay—I, I… okay. No, I wasn't… I wasn’t really listening, sorry—I need to leave, though, Joe, when should I call you tomorrow?"

"I'll be free until, like, seven, so that's… that's five PM, in Cali, and then also after ten, or so… so, you can call me after eight, I guess, or maybe wait a little while after that."

"Okay, okay, ummm… I'll do that, yeah, good night, I love you." Patrick tried and failed to pull his eyes from Pete, feeling almost a bit shameful. He promised at some point that he would stop wandering away from the band on stops like the one they were on now, that since he’d gotten lost or stranded a few too many times, he’d always make sure someone was around him. Though he justified it with the fact that he could easily see the tour bus, Pete’s occasional glances made him feel like perhaps it wasn’t a great justification.

"I love you too, cutie. Good night," Joe replied.

"Good night," Patrick said, barely over a whisper.

Joe chuckled and hung up.

"I was talking to Joe," Patrick said to Pete, setting the handset on the receiver and stepping to Pete.

"I figured, considering that you referred to him as 'Joe.'" Pete smiled and settled a hand on Patrick's back. "Let's go inside and get you a candy bar, or something, before we go. You look cold."

Together, they walked into the gas station's minimart, and Patrick realized as water dripped from his hair into his face that he'd been out for longer than he thought. He grabbed a Coke, and Pete paid for it, hand still on Patrick's back as they stepped outside, neither having said a word to their fellow bandmates past the smallest of greetings. Pete's cigarette was stomped out and they stepped into the tour bus. "I miss him," Patrick said.

"He's not—he can’t be your whole life, Patrick."

"I know, but right now I miss him." Patrick sat down at the little table at the front of the bus and opened his Coke. "He makes me happy, y’know. I feel "

Pete glanced around, then sat down beside him. "I'm glad he makes you happy. Few days left, and we'll be back home. You can push through, though, right?"

Patrick nodded. "A few days is easy, Pete. I'd move mountains for him, of course I can get through a tour."

Pete laughed, patted his back, and headed back out of the bus with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Patrick took a sip of his Coke, then found a pen and paper so he could try to write out his thoughts before the rest of the band returned.


	14. A Day in the Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what this is lmao

Patrick looked around bleakly, his high disappearing from him. He had such a bad headache, and everything had gone wrong, and even though he kept clicking his heels, over and over, he never actually ended up at home. Taking a deep breath, he entered a stall, shut it, and sat on the floor with his tape deck help carefully in his hands. After a quick check to make sure everything was alright with it, he pressed record. “Hey, Joe,” He started, hating the way his voice quivered. “Sorry, if I haven’t talked to you yet. I dunno if I’ve even seen you, if you’ll come visit me before you get this. Stupid ass fucking postal system. Anyways, uh… this is… this is so you get to hear from me, in the moment, so Andy doesn’t twist things up in a big lie to make me seem like a fucking devil, even if he’s probably, y’know, right about it.

“So… I’m sitting on the floor in the corner of a stall in a bathroom in Austin. I did cocaine, which was exciting up until a couple moments ago. I crashed a car, and I drank a helluva lot. I’m hiding, actually, right now. I need the quiet, think through how the hell I’m gonna talk straight. I did everything ‘cause no one was listening, and—and I know how you can handle it so fine, but I just… I hate the South, at least in Chicago only half the people on the street call me a fag. I fuckin’ hate it.”

He sighed and lowered his head, the lump in his throat becoming too much to bear. He’d forgotten, in the moment, what he was doing, but now he could remember his purposes so well. Touring was going fine from the outside, but internally Patrick couldn’t go a single show without feeling terrified for his life, never going a day without a handful of insults yelled his way. And yet, no one noticed him whenever he expressed how scared he was. “I missed coke. Feels good. Feels really damn good, but god, am I in a slump right now. Absolutely, y’know—crashing.” He made an exploding motion with his hands, accompanying it with the appropriate sound effects. He laughed at himself, for the stupidity of the moment, and that chuckle quickly turned into sobbing.

“Down on the floor of a fucking bathroom, Joe, that’s how down I am. Yelling in a fuckin’ library! I’ve got whiplash like hell, and… and, you know? I feel fine. I’m doin’ great. I’m alive. You hear that?”

He wiped his face with a sleeve, still somewhere between laughter and crying. “Andy has ought to bet that I regret it, but here’s the catch: I don’t. Absolutely not. I’ll tell my fuckin’ therapist that I do, but I don’t. I get to sneak a few more cocktails, now that I’ve broken my sobriety again. Because, you know, no one’ll care if I spend a week drinking pina coladas and margaritas, ‘cause at least I’m not doin’ coke!” He looked about the stall he was in, and his eyes couldn’t focus on a single piece of graffiti. Odd, he thought, that people would graffiti up a library. “Look, I’m sitting here, all alone, ‘cause I don’t want anyone to know about this. Consider this a diary entry, okay? Just venting, so you know that I should be treated like a monster when you inevitably see me next.

“I—man, I’m goin’ fucking crazy. I should’ve drank more before I crashed that stupid ass car.” He settled his head against his knees and curled up a bit, around his tape deck. For whatever reason, his breath was rather short, on the verge of hyperventilation. He steadied himself, and focused enough to read some of the graffiti, which quickly brought his headache back into focus. “Coke doesn’t last long enough, it sucks,” He mumbled, wondering if the deck would even pick it up.

Patrick spent another moment being quiet, and considered that perhaps Joe would be a bit more concerned than sympathetic at that point. “Don’t give me your pity bullshit, okay? Don’t even tell me you’re sorry I did anything, I know you’ll say that; I know everything you’d tell me, and I know you’ll pity the sorry sack of shit you call a boyfriend. Don’t even mention this stupid tape to me, okay? I’m hoping I still have enough of a buzz that—that I won’t have anything left to tell my fucking therapist.

“Things’ll be fine, Joe. Trust me. It’ll all be fine. I just walked back on all these stupid years of rehab. It’ll be fine. I’m gonna go out soon, I’m gonna let the boys find me, I’m gonna mail this to you, and it’ll be fine. Feel okay about this, baby, okay? I’ve never wanted you to be kissing me more than I do right now, and you’ve gotta know how much I miss you. I… god, this stupid fucking tour!” He knocked his knuckles against his head, though he stopped when his vision turned funny for a moment.

“I’m pushed too thin. I’ve got either a migraine or a hangover starting up, and… hm. I guess you’ll see me a lot soon, huh? Sorry for putting you through this bullshit, since I certainly don’t feel any better at this point.” He was considering what he was going to say next, when the very clear sound of the bathroom door opening echoed through the room. Under the stall door was Andy’s clean pair of boots. Knowing his still frantic breathing had already given him away, Patrick mumbled, “Shit, I can’t—bye,” into the tape deck, then ended the recording.

Though his limbs and head protested it, Patrick stood up, and—with the tape deck nestled safely between his arms—he stepped out of the stall.

“Well?” Andy asked. He looked more disappointed than he had ever remembered seeing the drummer.

“I wanna go to a post office and then go home,” Patrick replied. He struggled to move his eyes up to meet Andy’s, and when they did, they fell in an instant. “Need to send a cassette to Joe.”

“It’s nine, Patrick. Any post office we could find would be closed.”

Patrick took a deep breath. “Asshole,” He said, unable to muster up any other words.

“C’mon, man.”

“Fuck off.”

“Patrick, please.”

“You never listened to me.”

“I had no reason to think—”

“You didn't think I’d actually follow through with what I say. Well, look at how fucking wrong you are!” Despite his tone, Patrick remained cemented to where he stood, and still couldn’t quite look up. He began to say more, but his defiance dissolved into stupid, dumb crying. He hid his face with the tape deck, and stepped backwards when Andy tried to step up to him.

Andy, upon one of Patrick’s glances upwards, looked annoyed. “Come here, Patrick.”

“I’m…” He managed to contain himself for a moment, closing his eyes and turning his head away. “I’m not a fucking dog.”

“Drop the attitude and look at me.”

Patrick did so without any complaints.

“You’re a mess. Clean up your nose and we’ll get back to the boys, and I’ll explain to Tom why we’re cancelling the rest of the tour, and you’ll be shipped home as soon as you get a plane ticket.”

Patrick blinked at him, not entirely sure if he comprehended what Andy was saying. He raised a hand from his tape deck, and felt his nose, and his fingers revealed themselves to be sticky with blood when he pulled them away. A very mundane panic filled his body, and he stepped deliberately to the mirrors. He groaned when he saw that the bloody nose he developed at some point appeared to be rather severe.

Andy stepped to him, his hands in his pockets. “You’re not going to do anything about it?” He asked. Patrick had been staring at his reflection for a number of moments before Andy spoke, trying his best to recognize the blank face staring back at him.

“I can’t,” He replied, wishing his headache would go away so he would stop feeling so numb.

Unfortunately, that feeling of numbness only increased by the time they got back to their hotel, but at least he didn’t need a paper towel shoved up a nostril for the entirety of the drive back. Andy walked Patrick back to his room, and seemed to have enough faith in him to pat his back, open the door for him, and wish him a goodnight before heading off to his own room. Patrick locked the door as soon as he got in, packed his things (making sure the tape deck, which had only left his arms to be placed on his bed, would be in a safe spot while still being mostly unreachable by Andy), and realized he had enough coke left for a last hit. He never told anyone that he ended up snorting it, but that’s because no one knew to ask.


End file.
